


One Cool Remove Away

by primeideal



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 4: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, Gen, Parallel Universes, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:19:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26949604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/primeideal/pseuds/primeideal
Summary: The Triwizard Cup transports Harry and Cedric someplace very near, and yet very far.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 27
Collections: Fic In A Box





	One Cool Remove Away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [gloss](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/gifts).



There was a jerk at Harry’s navel, and he felt the rush of a Portkey jerking him away. They were gone.

And the next moment, they were outside the labyrinth, the judges blinking down at them. “Master Diggory!” Bagman exulted. “Well done, very well done!”

“Potter?” asked Dumbledore. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Er—we got there at the same time, Professor,” Harry blurted. “The Cup. We thought we’d call it a tie. Split the winnings.”

The other judges glanced back and forth among each other. Harry felt acutely conscious of Madame Maxime’s enormous eyes staring down on him, and—

“Mr. Crouch!” he exclaimed. “You’re well? What happened?”

“Clearly I am well,” snapped Barty Crouch. “While Hogwarts may think ghosts make suitable professors, I assure you—”

“Mr. Diggory,” Dumbledore interrupted. “What do you make of all this?”

“It’s like Harry said, sir,” Cedric responded. “We both got to the Cup, and—it didn’t feel right to go alone. He’d helped me before.”

“I had help too,” said Harry. Were they really going to replay this fight? “It wasn’t fair.”

Dumbledore adjusted his glasses like they were Omnioculars that might show him exactly what had transpired. “Both of these boys need rest and Madame Pomfrey’s attention. Barty, if you would make sure they meet with no distractions? As for you, Ludo...”

“Quite, quite!” said Bagman excitedly, amplifying his voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, the champion of the 1995 Triwizard Tournament…from Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, I give you Cedric Diggory!”

The spectators applauded and cheered. Harry did not think he could have been less conspicuous if he had been wearing his Invisibility Cloak. Yes, it was a relief to be free from the attentions of Rita Skeeter, but the least they could do was appreciate what he’d done! He’d almost been attacked by the sphinx, to say nothing of the dragon and mermaids!

“Right, get a move on,” said Crouch.

“Fleur and Krum,” Cedric said. “Are they all right?”

“Perhaps a leetle disappointed, under ze circumstances,” said Maxime. “But zat is life.”

“Krum tried to _Crucio_ me!” Cedric protested. “And Fleur was screaming, he might have gotten her.”

“No one would sink to that level,” said Karkaroff, “not to win a tournament.”

“I saw him—” Harry began.

“Barty,” said Dumbledore sharply, “Straight to the hospital wing, and no exceptions. Fleur and Krum are in good hands,” he added, before Harry or Cedric could reply.

Crouch hurried up towards the castle, urging Harry and Cedric in his wake. “It’s nice to see you well, sir,” Cedric offered cautiously.

“You flatter me,” said Crouch, without looking back. “Come on, up you get.”

Cedric gave Harry a nervous glance. Whatever had happened to Crouch, it didn’t seem like there were holes in his memory like Lockhart had after his modification charm backfired. Perhaps he was buried in urgent Ministry business? Urgent enough to send _Fudge_ in his place?

Or had Voldemort been involved after all, not wanting to kill Crouch but rather place him under the Imperius Curse? The man Harry was following could be an impostor, and he wouldn’t know.

If Cedric was speculating along the same lines, he didn’t show it. Crouch nodded unceremoniously as they entered the hospital wing, then closed the door behind them.

“Think I could have found my way here by myself,” Harry muttered, and Cedric laughed.

Madame Pomfrey entered shortly after, and cast a series of diagnostic spells that created orange sparks and made Harry go a bit cross-eyed, ignoring his protest that he was fine, really, she should be seeing about Fleur. Finally she gave him a bit of foul-smelling potion to drink, which felt warm going down his throat but had no other effect that Harry could discern. Cedric turned up his nose at his dose, too.

Then Professor Sprout showed up, beaming. “Cedric, well done!”

“Thanks,” said Cedric. “Er, Harry was brilliant too, you know...”

“Some of those traps were a bit subtle,” she went on. “I should know, seeing as I helped with the hedges. Dumbledore wants me to ask you a few questions, make sure you’re all right.”

Cedric laughed. “I think I’d know if I was jinxed.”

“That’s as may be,” she said briskly, and then waved her wand. Nothing changed for a moment, but when she continued speaking to Cedric, Harry could no longer hear; she had walled him out of the conversation.

Harry did not have long to wait, however, until another figure entered the room. He nodded pleasantly at Pomfrey, who waved and took her leave, leaving the newcomer with Harry while Sprout and Cedric continued their muted conversation. With a start, Harry recognized Professor Snape.

But it was Snape with shorter hair, a more relaxed demeanor. Had they travelled through time, like Hermione, to meet a younger and warmer Snape? No, the tournament was still there…

“Harry,” Snape said, almost amused. “Suppose you tell me what you’ve been up to.”

“Er,” said Harry. Snape greeting him by his first name was almost as strange as seeing Crouch restored to health. “Well, Cedric and I reached the center of the maze at the same time. We’d helped each other fighting off the spiders, and then when Krum went mental. And he was too—stubborn to take the trophy. So I figured we’d split it.”

Snape blinked, then nodded. “Professor Dumbledore believes you may be under the effects of a Pseudichave Curse.”

“I’m not sure what that is, Professor.”

“It is a sort of memory-modification charm that can be unpleasant if it persists, and it is usually better to lift it if possible. However, treatment needs to be quite precise, or else it might leave worse scars than the original damage. In order to precisely determine the course of remedy, I will need to ask you some questions that might seem absurd. Please try to answer as honestly as possible; I would rather not use Veritaserum on a minor.”

“Of course,” said Harry. “Er, something similar might have happened to Mr. Crouch. He was—very ill—when I last saw him.”

Snape nodded. “Could you describe what happened when the Goblet of Fire announced the champions? How did you feel about it?”

“Well,” said Harry, “we all figured Krum would win. And then Fleur was chosen, I was—I suppose happy for her, Ron had noticed her and thought she was—well fit. And when Cedric’s name came out, we were disappointed, because we were pulling for Angelina, but Cedric’s—all right. I mean, I knew he was good at Quidditch, and everything.” What sort of a curse was Dumbledore afraid of, that had Harry babbling inanely? “Good at Quidditch” seemed far short of summing up Cedric, his selflessness and quiet brilliance, but the Halloween feast felt like a distant memory. “And then my name came, and I figured—there must have been a mistake. I didn’t enter, I wasn’t allowed to enter! But Bagman said the rules were the rules, so I had to compete.”

“I see,” said Snape. Why was he asking? He had _been_ there, glaring at Harry judgmentally even though, for once, it hadn’t been his fault. “Why were you not allowed to enter?”

“I’m too young,” Harry said. “There was an Age Line, only wizards and witches of age were allowed to cross.”

“How old are you?”

“How _old_ am I? I’m fourteen, you know that!”

“Part of the diagnosis involves answering simple questions,” said Snape. “Consider this a very easy History of Magic exam. I hope you’ll agree it’s better than Binns’.”

Had Snape actually made a joke? “All right.”

“Tell me about Angelina.”

“What?”

“You mentioned that you were pulling for Angelina to be selected as champion. Who is she?”

“Angelina Johnson,” said Harry. “She’s a Chaser, plays for Gryffindor.”

“What was the objective of the second task?”

“To rescue people from the merfolk, under the lake.”

“Who needed rescuing?”

“Ron,” said Harry. “For me, anyway. Krum had Hermione, Cedric had Cho, and Fleur had her little sister. I don’t remember her name.”

And then he had to explain who Ron and Hermione were, as if Snape didn’t know that. Was Krum really so alone in a foreign country that _Hermione_ was the person he cared most for? What about his Bulgaria teammates? And what about Cedric and Cho? They hadn’t been going out before the Yule Ball, Harry thought, slightly annoyed. Had they really managed to form such a deep relationship in that time?

Snape’s rapid-fire questions continued—what was Harry’s best subject? Where did he get his Quidditch broom?—and finally, he asked, “Where did you live before you came to Hogwarts?”

Harry stiffened. What business was this of Snape’s, even an oddly-affable Snape? “Little Whinging,” he muttered, “with my aunt and uncle. They’re Muggles.”

“And how long have you had a scar on your forehead?”

“Since I was a baby,” said Harry, “when Voldemort tried to kill me.”

Snape nodded. “Thank you for being patient. For what it’s worth, you don’t seem like a Pseudichave victim.”

“So can I go, then?”

“I’m afraid not. Dumbledore will want to make sure you have a clean bill of health before you can, er, return to the dormitories.”

“But I’m fine.”

“I suggest you make the most of it.” Snape almost sounded sympathetic. “Better to be fussed over for nothing than not have help when you need it.” With that, he paced off, twisting his wand as he went.

“You all right?” Cedric said. Harry gave a start; the magical barriers the professors had cast were lowered.

“I’m fine,” he said. “He just wanted to ask me a bunch of silly questions. See if I was out of my mind, basically.”

Cedric nodded. “So did Sprout.”

“Was she...different?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, Snape was...I don’t know how he is with Hufflepuff, but with our class, he’s always—a git,” said Harry. “He actually seemed like a _person_ , just now.”

“I know what you mean,” Cedric said slowly. “No, Sprout was still herself, as far as I know.”

Harry nodded, glancing towards the door. The fact that neither Fleur nor Krum had arrived for treatment boded poorly, he thought, but maybe Dumbledore had dealt with them single-wandedly? Or Crouch had taken off from guard duty to heal them as dramatically as he’d recovered.

When it opened, however, it was to reveal Professor Sprout again, Cedric’s parents behind her. “Cedric,” she called, “if you wouldn’t mind joining us in my office?”

Cedric bounded up. “Of course! I’m not jinxed, then?”

“Not at all.”

He hurried to join his parents, his mother hugging him and his father pounding him on the back in exuberance.

“Professor?” Harry asked hopefully. “Can I just...wait in my dorms?” He wanted to see Ron and Hermione, perhaps to relax with the other Weasleys if they were still there. And he certainly wanted to know if the other champions were well.

“I’m afraid not,” said Sprout. “Professor Dumbledore has some things he wants to discuss with you.”

“Right,” said Harry. He wasn’t sure why he was surprised. Dumbledore had an answer for everything.

But it was instead Snape who returned, awkwardly taking a seat across the room. “Harry,” he said gently, “I’m afraid you’ve gotten caught in a dangerous web of magic.”

Apologetic Snape was more disconcerting than normal, callous Snape. “What’s new?”

“A normal memory jinx causes the subject to lose their memories, or in some cases, replaces them with altered or false ones. Some of the responses you and Mr. Diggory gave took us by surprise, which meant we had to rule out that possibility.”

“What surprise? You didn’t really think I liked Potions, did you?”

Snape gave what could only be described as a hearty laugh, but soon turned wistful. “I’m afraid, Harry, that is just what I _did_ think. Because you are not the Harry Potter that I, nor the other professors remember; you have come to us from a different world.”

“A different world?” Harry echoed. “D’you think I flew here from the moon, or something? Or is this about me being raised by Muggles?”

“Neither,” said Snape. “You can imagine, perhaps, that if certain events in the past had played out differently, the present day might be very different. If Grindelwald had killed Dumbledore fifty years ago, Hogwarts would have a different Headmaster. If Salazar Slytherin had died without heirs, Voldemort would never have risen to power. These may seem like mere speculations, but there is some highly complex Arithmancy that suggests that worlds like these are just as real as ours—if normally inaccessible. It appears that someone tried to configure the Triwizard Cup in _your_ past as a Portkey, but rather than transporting you and Cedric in space, it brought you to this world instead. You see, in my memory—and that of everyone else here—you were not selected as a Triwizard Champion, and thus Cedric emerging from the maze with you in tow was very unexpected indeed.”

“Oh!” Harry blurted. The last several months would have been much easier, and his friendship with Ron much stronger, had the tournament not been in the way. Then again, he would have had to be studying for exams. “So Fleur and Krum, they’re all right?”

“Yes, and Crouch as well.”

“Well, that’s brilliant.”

“For Cedric, the changes are minimal. We remember him almost entirely as he remembers himself—as a sixth-year Hufflepuff, who plays Seeker and gets high marks in Herbology. For you, however, things may be more complicated. _Your_ life has been tied up with the rise, and defeat, of Voldemort.” Snape nodded towards Harry’s scar. “But in _our_ world’s history, Voldemort never tried to kill you.”

“So I don’t have a scar,” said Harry. “And...nobody tried to enter me in the Triwizard Tournament. Does that mean whoever was doing it back there really did want to kill me? Because they were on Voldemort’s side?”

“Presumably,” said Snape. “But there’s more.”

Harry considered this. Without Voldemort, he might not have sought out the Sorceror’s Stone, or fought off the basilisk. But he wasn’t sure how any of that led to Snape making small talk. “Sirius Black?” he ventured. “Did he go to Azkaban?”

Snape glared—maybe even an altered history didn’t erase the bad blood between him and Sirius. “No,” he said. “But also—your parents are alive.”

His parents. Their absence had given shape to his life; it was the fact everything else was built around. Growing up with the Dursleys. Not knowing about magic, how to send an owl or fly a broom. Risking everything to rescue Sirius and have some semblance of a family.

Maybe it was for the best that he was alone, without Ron or Hermione or anyone to pry. No, the Ron and Hermione _he_ knew—who had befriended him and faced danger with him—were gone, maybe forever. Without Voldemort’s plots, what would have forged his friendships? There was no one, except the tentative and unfamiliar Snape, to watch him cry, overwhelmed at how the world could look so much the same and feel so much different.

* * *

The end-of-term feast saw Hufflepuff’s yellow banners adorn the Great Hall, and Cornelius Fudge took the floor to present Cedric with his winnings. A thousand Galleons! He had not really considered the prize money seriously—being chosen as Hogwarts’ champion had seemed unlikely enough when he first entered, and besting someone like Viktor Krum even more so. But it turned out his closest competition had come from Harry, who in this world, hadn’t even entered.

Dumbledore solemnly packed the Goblet back in its casket, while Madame Maxime gave an earnest if heavily-accented speech about how the tournament had fostered unity and goodwill, not only for Fleur, but for all the students who had studied at Hogwarts during the year, and that she hoped to see it return soon. Cedric was privately skeptical. True, no one had died in this iteration, but only a few people knew the full story of how powerful the Cup had really been.

The staff table was nearly the same as it had been in his world, but Professor Moody’s magical eye was not there. From what Cedric had inferred, Professor Snape had held down the position of Defense Against the Dark Arts professor for several years, and perhaps the pride of teaching his favorite subject had made him more approachable. The other Hufflepuffs described him as still being a harsh grader and occasionally tending to favor Slytherins, but didn’t speak of him in the tone of contempt Cedric remembered.

That meant that someone else—a redheaded witch sitting next to Professor Sinistra—was teaching Potions. If Cedric had been disoriented by meeting Professor Lily Potter, he had no idea what Harry must have been going through. Harry, who was now sitting at the Slytherin table where everyone expected him to be, and who had a first-year sister in Ravenclaw.

Cedric returned to the Hufflepuff table, which at least was a familiar sight. Not only was his prize money quite hefty, but it felt unnerving to be walking around with that much gold. Of course, none of his schoolmates would wish him harm, but...strange things tended to happen at Hogwarts. At least in his memory.

At some point he would need to register his own Gringotts account. For the present, he settled for taking an evening walk to the edge of the grounds, Apparating home to leave the Galleons with his parents, and Apparating back, trying to evade Filch along the way. Apparently, Snape’s personality change was surprise enough from the new universe; having Filch be affable as well was too much to ask for.

A long soak in the prefects’ bathroom, he decided, would be the perfect way to relax from the pomp and circumstance. But he stopped short of the entrance, because Harry was pacing there too. “Don’t tell me the password’s different here,” said Cedric, by weak way of greeting.

“Just needed a break,” said Harry.

“I can imagine.”

Harry shook his head. “Getting everything I dreamed of, everything I _couldn’t_ dream of—and I don’t know if it will last. Claire wants me to be her brother, and I’m not. Is he out in _our_ world, not used to being an orphan and having to fend for himself? Or is that world just gone?”

“I don’t know,” Cedric admitted. But something Harry said had reminded him, crass as it was. “Er, I know you weren’t really a competitor in this world. But as far as I’m concerned, we still tied. Can I split the winnings with you?”

“No, please,” said Harry. Stubborn as always, then. “What am I going to do with five hundred Galleons? I’m already rich. I mean, I have a mum, a dad...” He trailed off.

“Get Claire a racing broom.”

“She’s already claimed dibs on my hand-me-downs. And—” Harry tensed. “I have an owl, but he’s not mine. He doesn’t even know I’m not _his_ Harry.”

“Owls are smart,” said Cedric. “They pick up on lots of things. You never know.”

“I was going to ask...if you could write me over the summer. Stay in touch. Just so I have _someone_ to talk with, who understands. But my parents have a house. I reckon you could just—come over sometime, on the Floo.”

“Of course,” Cedric said. Where had Harry lived before, that he couldn’t even have guests? It wasn’t something he’d ever really thought about. Sure, Rita Skeeter had written some nonsense in the _Daily Prophet_ , but everyone knew better than to believe her. “And we can play Quidditch, too. It’ll be nice to face you on a fair field next year. No Dementors.”

Harry nodded, then blushed. “I—er—don’t think I’m going out for Quidditch next year.”

“What? You’re brilliant!”

“I talked it over with Dumbledore, and I think I’m going to repeat fourth year. I haven’t studied for exams at all, I couldn’t pass, and I’m not ready to take O.W.L.s. People here think I’m a Potions genius because my mum is a professor, but _I’m_ not.”

“You can still play Quidditch if you repeat a year,” Cedric pointed out. “Flint did.”

“Flint’s a git,” said Harry, and they both laughed.

“Maybe—” Cedric began, but broke off. If he was given the chance to return, he would take it; as similar as the worlds were, it would be a small relief not to be looking over his shoulder, making sure he didn’t say something that would mark him as a fraud. But it would not be fair to ask Harry to make that choice: Harry, who had a family and a normal life for the first time in fourteen years. If the possibility ever emerged, it wouldn’t be because Cedric raised the issue.

“I’ll just tell everyone I got cursed and need some time to recover my memories,” Harry said, and gave a dry laugh. “It’d explain the new scar.”

* * *

As summer ended, Cedric received two brief owls asking him to meet. Both of them sounded like important, if not outright ominous, conversations, and he was able to schedule both of them for the same day so he could get them over with.

The first was at Madam Puddifoot’s, where Cho spent longer than usual mulling over her order of tea and snacks. They had seen each other frequently over the summer, flying and taking in a Weird Sisters concert, but at times being with her still felt like he was at the Yule Ball, dressed in fancy robes that looked like something his great-grandfather would wear in the Wizengamot.

Cho’s concerns, however, were even more substantial than dress robes. “Ced,” she said, “I like you, and you’re a good friend—even if Ravenclaw are going to beat the daylights out of Hufflepuff next year—”

“Oi,” said Cedric.

“—but I think we ought to take a break.”

For a moment Cedric was dumbfounded, staring into his tea as if to perform Divination on the leaves and discern her meaning. “Have I been a git?” he blurted.

“Cedric,” said Cho, “I don’t think you could be a git if you tried. That’s not a challenge,” she added, before he could reply. “But it’s a couple things. These last few months you’ve been treating me like I’m made of glass. Clinging to me like I could disappear any moment.”

“No I haven’t! I worry about _everyone_ , because there could be danger _everywhere_. The tournament certainly showed that.” He hadn’t told her about the parallel worlds—if even the professors barely understood the magic, would she believe him? But facing dragons and sphinxes had to be scary for anyone.

“Maybe,” said Cho. “But the other night—maybe it was because of that, maybe it wasn’t, I don’t know—I snogged Marietta. And she’s, er, a lot better at it than you.”

“Marietta _Edgecombe_?” Cedric echoed. “Your friend with the hair?” _She’s not even well fit,_ he wanted to add, but thought better. If Cho was happy and not upset with him, that was as much as he could ask for. But really, he’d thought she had more taste than that.

“Yes,” said Cho, giggling. “She’s nice, you’d like her—well, not _like_ as in want to date, I mean...”

“I know,” Cedric said bluntly. “Well, thank you for being honest, not carrying on behind my back or anything.”

Cho nodded. “It’s the least I can do. I hope we can still be friends.”

Cedric found it hard to imagine not being friends with Cho; it was almost frustrating how reasonable she was being. How dare she not provoke him to yell and cry and cuss at her! At the very least, it would be nice to have the choice. But not only was she sweet about the whole thing, she’d even paid ahead for both their teas so he couldn’t be chivalrous and pick up the tab.

Half-fuming, Cedric paced through Hogsmeade. The summer crowd looked much the same: an elderly witch had brought a delicate telescope to be repaired at Dervish and Banges, young children flocked to see the owls at the post office, Oliver Wood was arguing about Quidditch outside Honeydukes. Was that Longbottom from Gryffindor disputing his points about the best brooms? Maybe the world was a little more off-kilter than he recognized.

He climbed up towards Hogwarts, retracing the familiar path. The halls were empty, of course; the Bloody Baron and Mrs. Norris were the only beings he saw as he made his way to Dumbledore’s office. He’d been there a couple times, mostly at the end of the prior year discussing the strange circumstances that had befallen him. But it was still a very odd sight, with the brilliantly-colored bird and the faded Sorting Hat and the heavy stone cauldrons all scattered about haphazardly.

“There you are,” said Dumbledore. “I hope you’ve been having a pleasant summer?”

“Mostly,” said Cedric. It seemed a more polite answer than explaining his romantic woes to the headmaster.

“Just a moment, if you would. I fear my other correspondent is running late.”

For a wild moment Cedric wondered if this was some obscure initiation ceremony for the Head Boy and Girl. Would the staff really have selected him after all the limelight he’d already had, or did they think he was already puffed-up enough? But instead of Alicia Spinnet or Patricia Stimpson joining them, it was Harry, hair disheveled as if he’d been running. “Sorry I’m late,” he said. “Claire wanted ice cream.”

“A wise choice,” said Dumbledore. “Have a seat.” So it was the Portkey nonsense, still.

Dumbledore toyed with one of the smaller knickknacks on his desk, a silver ball etched with green stripes that spun slowly. “You mentioned, I think, that Barty Crouch had taken ill in your world?”

“Yes,” said Harry. “And then he disappeared, when I was trying to find you.”

“Bartemius Crouch did not have an easy life,” said Dumbledore. “During the war with Voldemort, he was consumed by his zeal for justice, but it drove him away from everything else in life—including his dying wife and their violent son. Sadly, shortly before Voldemort’s downfall, his son was revealed as a Death Eater, convicted of anti-Muggle violence, and sent to Azkaban.”

“I know, sir,” said Harry. “You told me. I mean...the other you did. A few months ago.”

“I hadn’t recalled,” said Dumbledore, with a twinkle in his eye. “And we wouldn’t want to leave Cedric out of the loop, either.”

“Wait,” Harry said. “ _Before_?”

“Yes.”

“The...before...Crouch’s son went after the Longbottoms _after_ Voldemort had disappeared. He thought they had information about him. That didn’t happen?”

Dumbledore shook his head. “Voldemort chose to attack the Longbottoms personally, in our history. But they were well-hidden, and by the time he thought he had a lead, a traitor in his inner circle had tipped us off.”

“What does this have to do with us?” Cedric asked.

“A moment,” said Dumbledore. “Not even the loss of his son could deter Crouch from his singlemindnedness. His wife died shortly after, and a few months later, his son died in Azkaban. All this is a matter of public record, although hardly the sort of thing you boys would typically concern yourself with.”

Harry nodded.

“Since hearing your stories, I have been doing research with some Unspeakables about the boundaries between universes. This Might-Have-Bender is most useful.” He twirled the ball, and it spun faster in a different direction. “It’s taken some extrapolation, but it is possible to track magical signatures from your universe. Echoes of the forces that brought you here.”

Harry tensed, but Cedric just blinked. Dumbledore was not one to stand on ceremony if he didn’t have to; if he thought there was some point to this aside, Cedric would listen.

“It seems that, in your world, Barty Crouch the younger escaped from Azkaban and worked undercover for Voldemort. To the best of my knowledge, he cursed the Triwizard Cup. Probably not for this purpose—most rifts in time are of an accidental nature.”

“There was an escaped Death Eater wandering around Hogwarts and bewitching our trophies?” Cedric asked. “I would think _you_ would have done something about that, even if _we_ didn’t notice.”

“I would hope so,” said Dumbledore gravely. “But as it is—many deliberate spells cease to work upon the death of the caster. If you levitate an object and then die, it’ll crash back to earth. If you transfigure a mug into a mouse and then die, it’ll turn into a mug again.”

“But if you cast _Avada Kedavra_ on someone and then die, they don’t come back,” said Cedric. “Otherwise battlefields would be full of people dying and bouncing back all the time.”

“True,” said Dumbledore. “This disruptive magic is of that second kind. In order to reverse the magic, we would need the intent and will of _this_ Barty Crouch, Jr. But of course, he is no longer alive, and even magic cannot raise the dead.”

“Are you...” Harry seemed to be trying very hard to keep his voice level. “Does this mean that we can’t go back?”

“Indeed,” said Dumbledore. “For better or worse, that world is gone. You have no responsibilities there.”

“Thank you for letting us know,” said Cedric. He wanted to add _you could have just sent an owl_ , but glancing at Harry, decided against it. The news meant more to Harry than it did to him—Harry might need to work through it in person. Even there, in a world where no one else knew, Harry was still the Boy Who Lived and he was just Cedric.

“Of course,” said Dumbledore. He walked over to the side table and plucked a short hair from his beard, carelessly tossing it into the deep cauldron.

“What’s that?” Cedric asked.

“A Pensieve,” Harry blurted. “I mean...you explain.”

“Go on,” said Dumbledore.

“It holds memories. Lets you revisit the past. Do you—think it would work for us?”

“I daresay it might,” Dumbledore said. “But I would caution you against relying on it too heavily, especially between universes. It can be a danger to remain in dreams rather than the world you face.”

“You’ve said that, too.”

“Have I?” Dumbledore poked at the surface of the liquid with his wand. “Dear me, I must be getting forgetful at my age. Then again...” He peered down at the image that had swirled to the top of the Pensieve: the silhouette of some long-buried memory. “I once found myself in a situation not entirely dissimilar to yours. Cooped up, feeling like there was no one else alive who _understood_ how the world worked, the complexities and unrealities of magic. And when I did meet someone else who felt the same way, well, it seemed like it was too good to be true.”

“Was it?” Harry asked.

“Admittedly, yes,” said Dumbledore, and his bird seemed to give a low laugh. “But in retrospect, I had no way of knowing that; it is only the folly of age that tries to imagine it knew better at the time. I ought to have just spoken my mind from the first.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” said Cedric.

“Never mind, I do tend to ramble at my age. Run along and make the most of your summer.”

“Yes, Professor,” Harry grinned, scampering out of the office like a weight had been lifted from his back.

“Thanks,” Cedric repeated, and followed. Maybe no one else knew that Harry, in a universe nearby, had once defeated Voldemort as an infant. But then, no one else remembered the Harry who had outflown a dragon, who had risked his life to save prisoners that were in no danger, who had refused to lift the Cup until they could lift it together. Cedric did not need a Pensieve to tell him those memories were worth keeping.


End file.
